


Taste of Blood

by Phoebe_Hunter



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Disturbing Themes, M/M, Minor Character Death, No Sex In The Shower, Parrish and Derek Launch a Peter Intervention, Psychological Trauma, Romance, Self-Harm, The Rescue Fic My Heart Craved, There Is A Scene Involving A Shower, There Might Be Sex Elsewhere Though, spoilers for S4 finale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-15
Updated: 2014-09-15
Packaged: 2018-02-17 12:30:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2309741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Phoebe_Hunter/pseuds/Phoebe_Hunter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Still, some nights he lies awake, staring at the stars or the roof or the ceiling, and wonders whether he’s chasing one demon so he can run from another.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Taste of Blood

**Author's Note:**

> This is the fic I needed in the aftermath of the S4 finale. Well, one of the fics I needed. The others involve jail-breaks and explosives and sass. This is the slightly surreal, quiet, "Chris Argent breaks my frakking heart" fic. 
> 
> There is, unsurpisingly, some disturbing imagery at a couple of points. There are also references to self-harm. All up, I wouldn't say it's a *happy* fic, but I would say that it is less-sad than what I imagine is probably happening to Peter in Eichen House. And there is a shower scene involved. 
> 
> There is a fanmix to go along with it [here](https://8tracks.com/silverintheblood/taste-of-blood)
> 
> If I have forgotten to warn for anything I should have warned for I'm very sorry, let me know and I'll add it. 
> 
> Disclaimer: If they were mine, Peter would have better plans. 
> 
> Comments are welcome and loved.

It’s an easy rhythm to fall back into. The days on the road, the nights in cheap motels or in the backs of cars, the smell of gun oil and sweat and blood. He’s not as young as he used to be – he goes down harder and stays down longer, feels every blow in his bones – but the aches and bruises are a little like healing. There is a certain kind of stillness, in the moment before an arrow hits or a blow lands. A certain kind of peace.

The wound in his torso heals. Slower than it should. He’s always been meticulous about resting, recuperating, giving his body the time it needs. But this time he can’t, can’t fight the restless energy that galvanises him into action, can’t stop moving. If he stands still for too long he can feel the heavy wrongness of the iron tearing through flesh, taste the copper of blood on his tongue.

He keeps himself busy. Their quarry is elusive, but there are plenty of things to kill on the way. Plenty of distractions.

Still, some nights he lies awake, staring at the stars or the roof or the ceiling, and wonders whether he’s chasing one demon so he can run from another.

-

He takes Kate’s body back to Beacon Hills. That was part of the deal. This one he has to bury himself.

Their childhood home hasn’t changed in twenty years. The furniture hunches beneath heavy tarpaulins, looming shapes in the twilight gloom, and his feet leave tracks in the dust on the floor. He lays Kate down on the bed that used to be hers, all those years ago. The blood won’t come out of her tangled hair, but he wipes her face clean and finds a starched white sheet to drape over the body.

She follows him around the house that night, ghostly feet bare on the floorboards. He sees her from the corner of his eye, a girl again, hair in pigtails, skipping from room to room.

Derek comes to the funeral. He’s the only one. No sensation seekers this time, no journalists or crowds. Just the thud of earth on wood and a hollowness in his throat that might once have been grief. He understands why Derek needs to be there. They fill the grave in together, the autumn sunlight warm on their backs.

“Have you seen him?”

Derek doesn’t ask who. “A few times.” He hesitates. “He's not…" Another pause. “They put him in with Dr Valack for a little while. He hasn't really…recovered.”

Something sparks, sudden and unexpected. “I didn't realise Deaton did a line in torture.”

“I promised Deaton I wouldn't interfere. I think everyone else is just grateful that he’s out of the way.”

Out of sight, out of mind. War is so much easier when you don’t have to look at the bodies.

Chris should get the hell out of this town. He’s here to bury things, not dig them up.

-

“As far as they can tell he’s doing it to himself.” Deaton sounds almost academic. “He's not healing and he seems to be unable to transform, even when the moon is full. We tried to treat the burns but he reacts…strongly to touch.”

The skin of Peter's arm is burnt and blistered; charred black and cracked by rivulets of oozing pink. He’s sitting cross-legged, staring at the wall, blue eyes fixed on a point straight in front of him, cheeks sallow and drawn, mouth slack. There is a vacancy, an _absence_ that is almost tangible.

The feeling of wrongness is back, rising like bile in Chris’ throat. It’s too much like Kate, too much like Gerard; lock them all up and set them on fire. Make sure they can’t get out.

“How did he end up in a cell with Valack?”

“There was a…miscommunication.”

Chris thinks that’s bullshit, but this isn’t the time or the place to deal with that. Deaton’s always had his reasons, always played his games. Deaton should know better.

“I’ll take him.” And Chris hadn’t meant to say that, because it’s a stupid idea. He's supposed to be leaving, supposed to be moving on.

"Chris, do you really think that's wise?"

“Remember what happened last time he was out of his mind? I can keep him under control."

"He's under control here."

"I’m sure everyone would like to think so.”

“He’s not your cross to bear, Chris,” Deaton says.

But they both know that’s not quite true.

-

Chris chains Peter down, unchains him, chains him, then unchains him again. Peter doesn’t resist. He lies still on the bed Chris slept in for the first eighteen years of his life, hands resting by his sides, eyes closed. There’s a shadow of the boy, hiding in the hollows and curves of face, a flicker in the corners of Chris’ vision when he turns away.

Chris wants to poultice the burns but there’s already a bruise blossoming on his jaw from the one good blow Peter managed before they got a needle into his arm and he doesn’t want to disturb the fragile...peace is the wrong word. The lines of strain etched around Peter’s mouth haven’t smoothed out and his eyes are in constant motion beneath his close eyelids, flickering back and forth, up and down.

The quiet doesn’t last. Peter wakes up screaming once an hour, on the hour. The screaming breaks to gasping, racking sobs. Then whimpers. Then silence. Sometimes Peter screams names, sometimes curses, but mostly he just screams. Screams until his voice gives out and the keeps screaming.

Chris gives up on sleep and pads barefoot around the house instead. Runs fingers over the doorframe where his mother left notches for his and Kate's height as they grew. Lifts the tarpaulin from the old sofa where he kissed his first girlfriend for the first time. Looks at the spines of the books in Kate’s room. She loved horses and Judy Blume, and climbing out of her window to drink cocoa on the roof.

He doesn’t open the door to his parents’ bedroom or the basement. He ends up on the floor of his old bedroom, back against the bed, legs outstretched, with a pile of musty yearbooks.

Freshman year – he has a black eye in the photo and Peter’s hair is terrible. He clocked Peter in the jaw for a remark he made about Victoria and got laid flat by his future wife (who hadn’t needed anybody to defend her, thankyou very much).

Sophomore year – Peter caught him kissing a boy behind the bleachers and didn’t say anything. Peter’s wearing a leather jacket in his photo and looks like sin. He might be wearing eyeliner.

Junior year – Chris nearly put an arrow through Peter’s eye one night in the woods. Peter almost took his head off. But didn’t. Chris was better at basketball and Peter was better at maths and neither of them would have admitted it.

Senior year – there’s no photo of either of them. They shared a bottle of bourbon after a basketball game and almost got arrested. Spent half the summer in the woods. Peter kissed him.

He kissed Peter back.

-

He has to break into Peter’s apartment because nobody seems to know what’s happened to the key. It’s absolutely spotless, no dishes in the sink, no clothes on the floor, no milk in the fridge. He gathers up a generous selection of the seeming inexhaustible supply of v-necks and an assortment of other articles of clothing. Two pairs of boots. A bottle of cologne that’s so pretentious it doesn’t even have a label. Peter’s laptop.

He should leave but he finds himself searching the place instead. Old habits die hard. He rifles through the drawers, finds a wad of cash and a handful of coins, a few receipts. The books on the shelves are well-thumbed and eclectic, but there is the same sense of vacancy, of absence, that he felt when he looked into Peter’s face.

Whatever he’s looking for, it isn’t here.

He’s letting himself out when he’s hailed by someone unlocking the door to the adjacent apartment, laden with groceries. The man’s eyes fall to the bags in his hands. “Oh hey, I’d been wondering…I mean…is Peter ok?”

“I’m afraid he’s...passed.”

“Oh, God.” The neighbour shakes his head. “Damn…I’m sorry to hear that. He seemed like a good guy. Were you a friend?”

“Something like that.”

-

Deaton thinks it’s a terrible idea. But doesn’t stop him, because Deaton always likes to arrive a little too late, leave a little too early. Play his cards carefully. Keep the balance.

Valack looks pleased to see him.

“Christopher Argent. What a pleasure. What can I do for you?”

But Valack knows that already.

“What do you want?”

And that’s something Chris knows already.

_He’s on his back in the dark. He doesn’t want to open his eyes. He does anyway._

_He looks into Victoria’s rotting face. Her mouth opens and her teeth are sharp, tipped with blood. There are maggots on her tongue. “How could you, Chris?” She asks. “How could you.” Her skeletal fingers find his cheek and dig deep and he can’t move his hands, can’t push her away. “You were always weak,” she says and everything is tearing, ripping wetness and pain._

_He can hear Allison screaming, screaming for him. The wood of the lid of the coffin drives splinters deep into his palms but he keeps fighting until his fingers are raw to the bone. Allison is still screaming but he can’t break free, can’t get out. The lid gives and earth cascades down, filling his mouth and nostrils. He spits it out but it keeps coming until he has to inhale, feels the dirt tearing down into his lungs and drowns in it._

_Kate’s body is still beneath his. They’re pressed chest to chest and he can feel the blood soaking into his clothes. “Are you happy now, Chris?” she asks him, lips parting over shattered teeth. “Is this what you wanted?” Her hands cup his face, slick with gore. “Did you think you could bury me? Did you think I’d just lie down and die?” Her fingers close around his throat and all he can smell is jasmine. Jasmine and rot._

_The full moon yawns above him, swollen and red. He draws in gasping breaths of the cool air. Goes to move his hands and can’t. He’s tied down, bound to something that smells of ash and blood. He strains to lift his head and look around._

_The wood of the nemeton is hard against his back, roots twined like shackles around his legs and arms._

_“Comfortable?”_

_Peter twirls the iron rod like a cheerleader’s baton, pacing back and forth. His eyes are bright as he looks down at Chris, head tilted._

_“I’m sorry Christopher, I’m afraid this is going to hurt.”_

The scream shatters the world around him. He comes up fighting, straining against the hands on his shoulders.

“Chris!”

He opens his eyes. Lydia is staring at him, sweat beading on her brow, her buoyant curls dishevelled. The hands are Deaton’s. He shoves them away.

“Thankyou, Lydia,” he says.

There’s blood under his nails.

-

Chris watches the full room rise through the open window. The light creeps over the sill, inching towards Peter’s still form on the bed. The wind is crisp with the promise of winter and pungent with woodsmoke.

The moonlight touches the edge of the coverlet, pooling ever closer to Peter’s outstretched fingers.

Peter’s eyes snap open and he tries to snatch his hand away – too late. The air crackles and sparks. This time the scream is different. It echoes through every sleeping inch of the house, rings through Chris’ teeth and bones and lodges there. He wants to clap his hands over his ears until it stops but there is _smoke_ pouring from Peter’s skin and Peter is writhing and screaming, spitting out ash and blood, his own claws tearing deep into his torso.

Chris grabs Peter and hauls him bodily from the bed. Peter fights him hard, thrashing and lashing out with his fists. His skin should be hot but it’s cold instead, cold as ice and _burning_ beneath Chris’ bare hands. The smoke is heavy and cloyingly sweet and Chris staggers as it rushes down his throat.

Chris manages to get Peter through the door to the bathroom and lunges for the shower. Peter’s fist catches the corner of his jaw as he fumbles for the cold tap and Chris sees stars for a moment. Then the faucet sputters and saturates them both with freezing water.

Peter goes limp in Chris arms.

Chris kneels carefully, cradling Peter’s body, and arranges them both on the floor of the shower. He keeps one arm around Peter’s back, steadying him, and lets the other fall to his side. Peter is still and quiet, head resting against Chris’ chest, the only sign of life the barely perceptible rise and fall of his chest. The water runs in rivulets over the deep gashes and pools pink around the drain.    

And whatever it is that’s been holding Chris’ grief at bay, whatever knot has been coiled in his gut for month after month, breaks. He closes his eyes and tilts his head back, swallowing hard, but he can’t choke it down any longer. He leans his forehead against Peter’s damp hair and cries in harsh, wracking sobs until he can’t breathe, until the world is nothing but the yawning hole in his chest and the thunder of the water in his ears. It _hurts_ , a hot, vicious pain like a knife in his ribs.

Peter shifts in his arms and he looks down. The gashes in Peter’s torso are knitting slowly and the burns are fading. The lines of pain have smoothed out. Chris reaches up and turns the water off. Peter lies still. There are droplets of water clinging to his eyelashes and his damp hair is falling into his face.

It’s a foolish, fruitless desire but he can’t help himself. He traces the curve of Peter’s lips and the angle of his jaw, brushes the sopping hair away from Peter’s eyes. His fingers brush the delicate skin of Peter’s eyelids, rest for a moment on the pulse beating at his throat, drift down to map the jut of his collarbones.      

Peter’s eyes snap open and Chris freezes.

“Hello, Christopher. This is a surprise.”

-

“Have you decided that I’m your newest burden to be endured? How touching.”

Peter is kitten-weak and shivering with cold. He’s lost weight to the point of painful angularity; cheekbones sharp and eyes hollow. His eyes follow Chris as Chris strips off his soaking clothes and towels himself dry. Counting scars, perhaps.

“Keep your friends close and your enemies… _closer_. You’ve always been good at that, haven’t you Christopher?”

Peter’s voice has dropped to a purr. It would have worked once, would have had Chris’ heartbeat tripping with indignation. He finds a dry pair of jeans and a sweater and pulls them on.

“Deaton must be upset with you. He was so _pleased_ to have me as a guest.”

There’s a spare doona in the wardrobe; Chris pushes the few clothes still on hangers aside and pulls it out. Peter only just manages to catch it. He looks at it for a few moments and then unfurls it with a deft snap of his wrists.

“Is this you way of atoning, Christopher? Still feeling guilty about Victoria? And Allison? And Kate…dear me, you haven’t done well, have you?”

“They would have killed you and been done with it,” Chris says, and walks away.

He puts his fist through the mirror in the hallway and doesn’t care that Peter can hear it.

-

Allison had nightmares as a child. Terrible nightmares that left her shuddering and sweating and chilled. Peter’s are worse. Chris finally chains him up to keep him from tearing his own throat out and keeps watch. Peter talks in his sleep and Chris finds himself an unwilling confidant, forced into an intimacy Peter would hate. It feels like a violation.

Peter screams at Talia, claws chunks out of the headboard and begs her to listen to him. Bloodies his wrists against the handcuffs and flings himself against an invisible barrier, roaring with pain and rage. Collapses back and whispers _sorry_ , over and over again.

Chris is almost dozing when Peter surges upwards, straining against the chains, eyes flashing between blue and red, the tendons in his neck straining as he bows his back against the restraints. “You think you can keep me here?” He looks straight at Chris. “You’ll have to kill me,” he hisses. “You’ll have to kill me because I won’t stop.” His voice rises to a roar on the last words. “I won’t stop”

He slumps back, strings cut, and subsides into a restless sleep, tossing and murmuring.

Victoria refused to allow Allison a night light, but Chris always read to her until she went back to sleep, her tiny hand clasped in his. He isn’t sure if it was his presence, or the story, or just the murmur of someone else’s voice that helped, but it did.

Chris pulls a book at random off the shelf.

“Mr and Mrs Dursley of number four, Privet Drive, were proud to say that they were perfectly normal, thank you very much...”

Chris falls asleep beside the bed with the book open on his lap and Peter doesn’t stir again.

-

Giving Peter a straight razor is probably a suicidally bad idea, but Chris does it anyway. Peter emerges from the bathroom almost an hour later, clean-shaven and smelling of shampoo and the spice of his cologne. His jeans are too loose and the neck of his shirt gapes.    

Chris busies himself cleaning his guns and doesn’t think about the whys and the whats and the wheres that crowd in every time he stands still. Sleeplessness has left him scratchy and strung-out, hands a little unsteady.

Peter prowls from room to room, lifting up the tarpaulins and peering into the cupboards. Chris hasn’t really unpacked anything, hasn’t bothered to uncover the furniture or open the doors. They drift around one another in the half-house, and Chris wonders if Peter sees the same things he does. Hears the thud of a basketball on the stairs, sees snatches of colour vanishing around corners.

Peter makes acerbic remarks about the photos (“really, Christopher, denim on denim?”) They don’t talk about whether or not he’s free to go.

He vanishes for a while and Chris finds him in the hallway looking at the door to the basement.

“It’s not locked.”

Pete’s smile is wry. “Some experiences don’t bear repeating.”

Peter pulls the tarpaulin off the sofa and puts his feet on Gerard’s favourite coffee table. He declines Chris’ offer of a laptop and reads instead. Chris walks in at twilight to ask about dinner and discovers Peter curled up, fast asleep, _Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban_ under his cheek.

Chris finds the tracksuit in the bathroom, torn to strips.

-

Chris meets Parrish for coffee, ostensibly to fill in the details of the rough explanation he managed on the way to Mexico. Parrish drinks peppermint tea and asks sensible questions. Chris is standing up to leave when Parrish asks about Peter. He sits back down.  

“You don’t think I know what I’m doing.”

Parrish shakes his head. “That’s not it, sir.”

“Chris, please.”

“Chris. You care about him.” Parrish raises a hand before Chris can respond. There’s a flush of colour in his cheeks. “I don’t…I mean, that’s none of my business.” He sighs. “My best friend enlisted with me. He was with a convoy that hit an IED. He was the only one who made it back.” Parrish’s voice is even but his knuckles are white around the handle of the mug. “Only he didn’t really make it back.”

Chris doesn’t say anything because there’s nothing to say.

“After the fire...I don’t know what Peter was to you, but I don’t know if he’s that anymore. I don’t know if he _could_ be that anymore.”

Parrish’s eyes fall to Chris’ torso and Chris feels an echo of the old hurt. He knows Parrish is thinking about the blood on their hands, the blood all over the car, the gauze pads and Melissa McCall’s face, white-lipped and determined.

“What happened to your friend?”

There’s a sorrow in Parrish’s eyes that makes him look ten years older. Soldiers see too much. “He’s dead. What are you going to do with Peter?”

And Chris would answer that if he knew.

He’s standing again when a hand falls on his shoulder and he turns to face Derek.

“Chris.”

Chris can’t help the smile. “Is this an intervention?”

“Consider it a council of war,” Parrish tells him.  

-

Chris arrives back – not home, it hasn’t been home for years – later than planned, the taste of whisky still lingering in the back of his throat.

Peter is in the kitchen brewing Turkish coffee on the stove. He makes it thick and strong and sweet; pours it out into the little cups with the deftness Chris remembers. The taste takes him straight back to their senior year. Peter tidies the cups away when they’re done and looks at Chris with a question in his eyes. Chris should walk away. He doesn’t.

Peter crowds Chris back against the kitchen bench and kisses him, open-mouthed and hungry. His hands are light on Chris’ hips, and when he pulls away there’s hesitancy in his face Chris has never seen before. And Chris doesn’t want that, doesn’t want the tenderness that trembles between them. _Can’t_ want it. So he curls one hand around the back of Peter’s head and presses their lips together.

It’s foreign and familiar all at once. The taste of Peter’s mouth, the way he trembles when Chris’ teeth graze his neck, the way his breath catches when Chris wraps a hand in his hair and tugs.

They don’t make it to the bedroom. They end up on the floor of the kitchen in a welter of discarded clothing, the linoleum hard against Chris’ back. Peter’s hands are on his face, Peter’s tongue is in his mouth and Peter is kissing him like he wants to crawl under Chris’ skin.

Peter’s lips find the pucker of scar tissue on Chris’ torso and Chris arches against him, fingers tightening on Peter’s shoulders. Peter breathes _Chris_ and grazes his teeth over Chris’ hipbone as his fingers find the zip on Chris’ jeans. And Chris’ world fragments until the only thing that matters is Peter, the heat of Peter’s breath against his skin, the way the muscles of Peter’s shoulders move under his fingers. The saltiness of Peter’s sweat and the way Peter buries his face in the crook of Chris’ neck as he shudders to completion. The way Peter’s fingers twine with his and his voice breaks on Chris’ name, ragged and rough, as Chris comes apart in his arms.

It’s an easy rhythm to fall back into.

-

Chris should move, should get up, should…

He lies still instead, Peter’s head resting on his chest, and watches the moon rise through the open window.


End file.
